The Ache

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The rain has stopped,
for now.
It fell in leaden sheets
all morning,
slanting hard and sharp.
The gutters struggling
to keep up.
The ruts in the driveway
filling to excess.
The worms
floating.

But now the sun has broken through
and the sodden earth attempts to rise.
The air that hangs between them
is heavy and swollen.
There is a chorus of birdsong.
Up the road, a lawnmower whirs,
trying to beat out the next storm.

I’m sitting on the porch,
my bare feet on the steps,
spilling into the sunshine.
I should paint my toe nails,
I think.
I should do a lot of things.

The breeze keeps blowing my hair
over my eyes.
I leave it there
letting it filter the light
so that everything is
both light and shadow.
And I am both seen
and
unseen.

It is in this space,
surrounded by golden shafts of sunlight
and swaying blades of grass,
that I recognize
the ache
the desire
the fear.
What if all I ever am
is this
right now?
Will this have been enough?

A hummingbird flies by,
it’s electric buzzing
startling in the best of ways.
Out of the corner of my eye
I catch its shadow on the concrete,
bigger than life.
I wonder if she noticed
that she was more than.
I wonder if she aches.

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Holly Grantham
Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of three boys, snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace. After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends that she lives in the country.
Holly Grantham

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